I was going to write about a different place and different theme this week, but something has diverted my attention and gotten me thinking about the place of memories in my own life, and in the American psyche.  A very dear friend of my family is near death right now in Jackson, Michigan, and while all my thoughts are with her in this moment, I am also scrolling back to all of the memories with which she is associated.

Judy was part of our lives before I was born; in fact, she met my parents when my dad was a patient in the dental office where she was a hygienist.  I’m not sure how one gets to chatting with someone who is poking around in your mouth, but by the time he left his appointment, they had set up a dinner date with their spouses and from then on were the best of friends, especially the two women.   The Pursell’s oldest daughter is a year older than I and we grew up together, as did my sister and their three other children.  My mom and Judy had adventures together that are the stuff of family legend, and although Judy always said that my parents opened up the world to her, I think it worked both ways, as she brought unfailing love, cheerfulness, and joyful spirit to all of us, opening up our world, too.  Judy came with us when I was dropped off at college, she did the flowers for my wedding, and she has been a non-stop cheerleader my whole life.  

I was born in Jackson, Michigan, where Judy lives, but I only lived there for five years, at which point my family relocated to the town west of Chicago where I grew up.  My child-centric memories of Jackson are of our square green house at the end of a tree-lined street, my sweet kindergarten teacher, and some neighbors who seemed wildly bohemian to me because they played Herb Alpert records and danced together in their living room.  Jackson turns out for some reason to be the home of Coney Island hot dogs, and I remember my mother saying she and Judy would get together when their husbands were traveling on business, and after the kids went to bed, one of them would go get a couple of “coney dogs” with chili and onions and a greasy bag full of onion rings to fuel their craft-making sessions late into the night.

And now as I am adding to the loss of both of my parents a year ago the loss of someone else so important, I am finding it hard to stay in the present, but am living in all the memories.  My sister has often wisely said that the older she gets, the more she appreciates the gift our parents gave us of a happy childhood.  Not perfect, of course, but to have a trove of memories that make you feel warmth and gratitude and sense of belonging is no small gift.  

Soaking in the past naturally leads to thinking about the future, and where those memories go from here.  What will happen to my memories, the stories and the stuff that have made up my life, when I am gone?  Although I would like to think that succeeding generations will tend and care for my memories, I know full well that they won’t.  My generation is repeatedly admonished to get rid of all our stuff so our kids don’t have to “deal” with it when we die, and we are told that no one is interested in our reminiscences.  You could say it’s just the way of the world, but actually I don’t think it is–many cultures revere their ancestors and treasure their pasts. But it certainly seems to be the way of America.  

We are a go-go, forward-facing people, and it probably has had to be thus in order to conquer, create, and cohere all that we have.  Youth, vitality, and the future are what Americans prize; age, wisdom, and the past are associated with boredom and decay.  We all know that not understanding or treasuring our past leads to making the same stupid mistakes, but do we also get that we are missing out on incredible riches by not focusing on our individual, family, or national histories?  How is the America of 2026 honoring its past?  I have to say that the horrific implications of what has become the idea of “making America great again” is entirely too indicative of how Americans think about our past right now:  shallow, ignorant, and hateful.  That’s not all that is happening in the Semiquincetennial, of course, but while I don’t know about you, I have been struck this year by the half-hearted, uncreative ways we have celebrated the 250th.  Are we all so afraid of the future or so weary of the present that the idea of giving energy to the exaltation of the past is just too much to ask right now?  Maybe.  

How did it look in former big-round-number national anniversaries?  Both Thomas Jefferson and John Adams died on July 4, 1826, the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and while I am in no position to say that either of them made that spectacular commemoration of the nation’s founding happen on purpose, you can’t escape the historical symmetry of it.  

In 1876, the country seems to have been stunned to find itself a century old (as anyone who is elderly can attest: “how did this big birthday sneak up on me?”).  They threw themselves a Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, a mere 11 years after the end of the Civil War, to try to heal and reunite the country by focusing on how great the present moment was, and how bright the future.  Thinking about the past wasn’t a major impetus for the Centennial.  

One of my favorite stories from the Centennial has to do with an exhibit found at the back of the fairgrounds, behind the massive Machinery Hall and the state pavilions showing off all manner of gee-whiz inventions and industrial prowess.  The “Colonial Kitchen” was two buildings side by side: the old-timey log kitchen and the new-fangled modern one, with the intent to contrast the bad old days of the colonial era with the beautiful modernity of 1876.   What resulted, though, was just one more example of how history takes us by surprise: the log kitchen was the delight of the fair, while the 1876 kitchen was completely overlooked.  Everyone adored the butter churn, spinning wheel, Puritan baby cradle, and huge fireplace of the 1776 exhibit, finding them to be truly American because they were unassuming and practical.  The Victorian excesses and technological marvels of 1876 looked crass next to such modest hominess.  Thus began the Colonial Revival, part of a larger love affair with the romanticized American past which is with us to this day (witness: Disney’s Main Street, gas stations with cupolas, white-columned grocery stores, and light fixtures that look like they burn candles).  

In the bicentennial, the country was coming out of a traumatic period again: Vietnam, Watergate, recession, oil crisis, and the turmoil of the 1960s.  Once again, the idea of a big birthday was used to try to reassure and reunite Americans, this time by foregrounding American history, featuring places and ideas like Lexington and Concord, the Founding Fathers, the Statue of Liberty, stars and stripes, and the Liberty Bell.  It was our shared past that united us; our memories are what we celebrated.  

But national memories are slippery and exploitable things, and we all have our own versions of what our common past is and why it might matter.  I would posit that in 2026, we are again in a period of profound trauma, with deep divisions over what we share as Americans and what we all should treasure.  Hopefully by the tricentennial, we will be past this version of the Civil War and the 1960s, and be ready to find ways to celebrate 300 years of American ideals.  If, that is, we still aspire to those ideals at all in 2076.  

Jackson could be seen as an exemplar of the American town, having had boom days when auto parts manufacturing held sway, and decline since the mid-20th century.  It has about 30,000 people, so it’s mid-sized, in the middle of a state in the middle of the country.  It’s a mix of red and blue politics, somewhat racially and economically mixed as well.   It’s my birthplace, but it doesn’t mean as much to me as the lady who is right now going through the sacred passage into life’s next phase.  Memories mostly have to do with people and the stories we share, and they really do matter–in fact, they are what make us human, and what makes our country humane.